


If You Like It Violent

by loghain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Gunplay, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-05
Updated: 2012-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-28 23:27:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/313340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loghain/pseuds/loghain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's only one thing that Jim Moriarty ever asks permission for, so Sebastian Moran can never say no. Straight-up porn, with top!Moriarty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Like It Violent

**Author's Note:**

> My dreamcast for Moran in the BBC series is Craig Parkinson. So there's that. He's who I had in mind whilst writing. Title from IAMX's "Spit It Out", because it's one of 38 songs on my Sebastian/Moriarty playlist.

"I'm bored."

Sebastian lowers his book to look over his shoulder, where Moriarty is leant on his elbows on the sofa back, hands tucked up innocently beneath his chin. He narrows his eyes suspiciously. "Don't you normally kill someone when you're bored?"

"Don't be silly," Moriarty chastises, brow furrowing. "I get you to kill them for me."

"Right, my mistake," Sebastian mutters. "What d'you want?"

"Can I fuck you?"

Sebastian lowers the book (Moriarty's recommendation, thank you, a novelisation of several prolific unsolved murders that includes a few Moriarty was responsible for) and snaps it shut, leaning forward to drop it on his crappy IKEA coffee table and then he leans back again, spreading his arm out along the back of the sofa.

Moriarty tucks his hands into his pockets, an eyebrow raised expectantly as Sebastian tilts his head backwards to inspect his boss's demeanour. He waits until the corners of Jim's mouth start to tighten and downturn, just to watch the wide grin that returns to his face when he says, "Why not."

Moriarty kisses him, palms flat alongside his face and nose nudging his chin, and says, "Oh good. I almost thought you had ideas to say no to me, then."

"You actually almost sound disappointed," Sebastian points out.

"You know I like you so much better with bruises," Moriarty replies, and he runs his finger along the fading yellow mark on his cheekbone from last week before he straightens up, walking off and scraping his fingers through Sebastian's hair as he goes, giving it a tug and saying, "Come on, then."

Sebastian taps his fingers on the back of the sofa, watching Moriarty walk off, and then clambers to his feet (tangling them along the way, but thankfully Jim doesn't see), following his boss.

Jim Moriarty doesn't ask for much. He really doesn't. He takes what he wants, without question and only a little room for negotiation and that's if he's in a good mood. If Jim wants to get fucked, he just climbs into Sebastian's lap, never mind if he's reading or eating or even if he's cleaning a gun.

But Jim Moriarty always asks for permission to fuck Sebastian.

So Sebastian never has it in him to refuse.

Moriarty's sat on the edge of the bed already when he walks in, mouth set to a thin smile and eyes lit up. Sebastian doesn't wait for whatever theatric Moriarty might have planned this time; he stands in front of him and undoes his belt, not bothering to pull it from the loops, just shifting it out of the way so he can unbutton his jeans, and then down comes the zipper and all the while Jim watches him as if he's putting on some kind of elaborate show.

"I haven't got all day," Moriarty says when Sebastian's unbuttoning his shirt (crisp, white, because Sebastian knows better to dress like a slob at any point. He had pajama pants once. He thinks Jim had them burnt).

Sebastian raises an eyebrow and scoffs, "Yes, you have." Jim had been here for an hour before announcing that he was bored, long after he'd rifled through Sebastian's food in search of something brightly coloured and bad for him. And it's getting dark out. Usually it means Jim plans to stay. Which means there won't be that much sleeping happening.

"Do you want to test my patience, darling?" Moriarty remarks, eyeing Sebastian's torso as he throws off shirt and undershirt in two swift movements, his hand slipping into his jacket. Sebastian's heartbeat quickens, because he knows Jim's got a gun in there - and it's always loaded, as Sebastian knows thanks to a hole in the wall above his headboard.

Moriarty produces the handgun, turning off the safety and then he leans forward, elbow on his knee as he points the gun at Sebastian. He cocks an eyebrow.

Sebastian steps forward until he's standing over Moriarty, the barely cool muzzle of the gun pressing into the soft middle of his stomach. It's been inside his jacket, Sebastian remembers. It's warm like him. Moriarty looks cold, pale and hard of face when he wants to be, but Sebastian knows better than anybody just how warm he is, all the places he goes most red when he's about to come and little things like how hot the small of his back gets.

"Know you know I love testing your patience," Sebastian says, propping a knee on the bed beside Jim's hip, leaning forward. Jim leans with him, but presses the gun harder into his stomach, and that just sends Seb's blood rushing. The knowledge that Moriarty's finger could slip. The complete danger of how often they both ignore basic gun safety in favour of getting a thrill - be it the time that Sebastian had a revolver pressed to his skull as he blew Jim, or how once he took Moriarty's own same handgun from the coat of his suit and it transformed into a vicious roleplay of sorts, as Sebastian threatened him until they wound up fucking in an alleyway, Moriarty's chest to the wall and Sebastian's pants barely pushed down.

He leans until he has to extend his arms out, until he lifts his other leg and suddenly they're flat out on the bed, Sebastian with a knee either side of Jim's stomach, hands above his head and that gun still angled into his flesh.

The gun's never been fired so far, but it's always loaded. Jim doesn't play pretend. And Sebastian would never want him to. "You gonna shoot me or fuck me?" He teases, and Moriarty purses his lips contemplatively.

"No reason I can't do both, is there?" He pushes Sebastian off him, and sits up, and adds, "Maybe not in that order. Or maybe it will be in that order." Sebastian chuckles from his new place strewn half on his side across the bed, and Jim puts the gun down on the bedside table, opting to shift onto his knees and crawl up Sebastian's body, slipping a hand inside his open jeans and squeezing his cock through his underwear.

"Hello," he murmurs, a wicked smile on his lips, and Sebastian's mouth opens just that little bit as Jim works his fingers, dragging about the cotton of his underwear whilst he gropes at him. Sebastian sits up without permission to grab Jim's tie at the knot and yank it free of his throat, tossing it aside before Moriarty can get any ideas like tying Sebastian's wrists together behind his back. (Maybe later.)

Moriary squeezes his cock a little too hard for that, but Sebastian just bites his tongue (quite literally, pinching it between his teeth) before he leans back, shuffling his jeans down off his body. Moriarty seems to take that as the time to take his own clothes off, so Sebastian quickly sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and propping one foot at a time onto his knee to peel his socks off whilst he's distracted.

When he shuffles back onto the bed, Moriarty's stood off it, folding his suit and stood remaining in just his underwear. Sebastian inhales deeply through his nose, watching the pale lines of his shoulder blades and back as he goes through his suit jacket, and shifts his shoulders against the pillows, parting his thighs without thinking about it and reaching a hand into his underwear to stroke his cock, teasing it to hardness.

When Jim turns to face him, a condom between two of his fingers, Sebastian should stop touching himself, but he doesn't. If anything he goes for being more... fervent, well aware of how his own breathing picks up now there are eyes on him. "Nice," he comments, dripping with sleaze.

Moriarty says nothing, and just digs into Sebastian's draw to find the pump-bottle of lube. It's nearly empty now. It wasn't exactly getting much use until Sebastian and Jim started fucking like rabbits. It's got enough left, though, Sebastian knows, enough for him to be comfortable.

Although, that's the thing about letting Jim fuck him: he's not comfortable. He gets off on it to an extent, the discomfort of being around six inches or more taller than his boss and forced to bend every which way for him, but mostly, he was just never that into the idea of taking it in the arse.

But Moriarty asks. And Sebastian will do anything Moriarty asks. And hey, just because thinking about it isn't to his liking, it doesn't mean he doesn't enjoy it. Because fucking hell, he does.

Moriarty kneels on the bed now, a smirk playing on his lips as he pushes Sebastian's knees apart, settling himself between them. He grabs Sebastian's wrist, hard enough that Sebastian would jump if he didn't expect this kind of force from Jim by now, and his grip leaves blooming bright white imprints in his skin when he lets go - once he's shifted Seb's hand out of his underwear, of course, which he then starts to tug down.

Moriarty wraps a hand around the length of Seb's cock with a loud, pleased inhale that Sebastian mirrors with a gruff exhale, pumping his hand up and down until Sebastian breaks and groans, hips twitching, hands scraping for something to grab and settling on the bedsheets.

Jim mouths over the skin of his stomach where the gun has pressed, kissing across the haphazard smattering of hair, and then he maneuvers around Seb's gangly legs to get his underwear cast away, sitting back and squirting lube from the bottle onto his fingers.

"I watched someone die from cyanide poisoning today," Jim says, "A lovely powder that I had slipped into their drink." He pauses, seeing that two fingers are thoroughly coated, and he reaches down, down, and presses those two fingers against Sebastian's hole; Sebastian shuts his eyes momentarily as he tips his head back against the pillows, and Moriarty presses one finger into him, sliding it all the way in without any sort of question as to Sebastian's welfare.

He knows that Sebastian can take just about anything he doles out.

"Increased heart rate. Their chest was heaving," Moriarty commentates, "Weakness, confusion..." He pulls the finger out slowly, and then presses in two, pushing them in quickly and earning a gasp from Sebastian. "Skin, flushed..."

Sebastian mutters, "Fuck," hips canting, and Moriarty smiles before he says, leaning very close to Sebastian's face, "I can do all that and I don't even have to poison you."

Sebastian will never tell him with words that he's right, but even that little story - sick as anyone normal would probably find it - sets his pulse burning, and christ, he can't stand Moriarty sometimes, with his smug smiles and the fact his mind is as clever as his hands.

Moriarty pulls his fingers out of Sebastian almost abruptly, and pats his hip, and so Sebastian does as he's instructed. This is nearly always the way they do this; the length of Sebastian's legs doesn't lend them being comfortable for long, and once Jim starts he doesn't often care for the pauses involved in changing around. Sebastian's inclined to agree.

He starts off upright, resting on his wrists, planted in the sheets, and he listens to the sound of ripping foil and the pumping of more lubricant, and then a slightly sticky hand rests itself on Sebastian's hip and the head of Moriarty's cock is pressing at his entrance; Moriarty's nails dig in and he snaps his hips in, and Sebastian drops his head forward and swears loudly, hair falling into his eyes.

Moriarty stays still like that for a minute, hips flush against Seb's arse, fingers pressed hard into his hip and his other hand running across his back - he drags his nails in there, too, making Sebastian hiss and curve his back, and Moriarty has the gall to laugh.

"I love leaving nail marks on your back," Jim says, leaning to kiss the pink marks he's just made. "I love it when I make you bleed for me and you, you just love it, too. Don't you?"

Sebastians groans in frustration and growls, "You know I do, you arsehole."

Moriarty laughs - no, he fucking giggles, and then he lets out a long low sigh and groans on the out-in before he sets up a rhythm, his breathing heavy and loud and his hips jerking against Sebastian's and before long, Sebastian's strength gives and his arms crumple under him, and he presses his forehead into the sheets and moans, swearing and cursing Jim to have a short and unimaginative life all the while.

His chest is fucking heaving, too, heart pounding away against his rib cage, and Jim's thrusts giving him cause to cry out more frequently than he'd ever admit to. Sebastian's fingers thread into his own hair from the tense frustration of it all; he balls the top length of it into his fist and just holds onto it for dear life.

He's pleased that Moriarty's not exactly in pristine condition, either. The man's thrusts are sloppy, but hard, and Sebastian can feel at least one drop of blood that's rolled down his leg from where Jim had somehow managed to break the skin of his hip with those nails. It's not as if Jim's nails are long, but they're thin and sharp, and he knows the way to press them in so that they're either harmless or they'll cut you open.

He knows a thousand ways to send a man to his death, Sebastian thinks, as Moriarty wraps a hand around his cock, setting up an uneasy unison between the push pull that makes Sebastian's toes curl and he physically bites down on the sheets to stop himself from yelling.

"When we're done here," Jim starts, his voice itself seeming to shudder, rough, "I'm going to replace all those bruises that've gone away."

Sebastian's not thinking anymore; he just says, "I'm going to see if I can mark that face of yours," as if it's the sort of thing that could ever go unpunished by Moriarty. Jim grabs his hair and yanks hard, pulling Sebastian forcibly up onto his arms again, hips jerking viciously like a punishment, and Sebastian feels so weak that it is - except he's very incredibly turned on.

Jim pulls again, actually bringing Sebastian upright, chest pressed to back as Jim thrusts into him, his hand still balled in his hair so tightly that if Sebastian moves his skull at all it burns. Moriarty's hand claws for purchase on his stomach, his teeth sinking into Sebastian's shoulder.

The familiar heat builds up, and it's like Moriarty knows it, can sense it, because his fingers wrap punishingly tight around Sebastian's cock and he jerks him hard, until Sebastian comes with a hoarse, pained cry, sticky and warm and wet.

Jim pushes him back down then, face down in the sheets, and he only lasts a couple more half-hearted pushes of his hips before he comes, too, and Sebastian shuts his eyes tightly and lets out a long, shuddering moan that Jim echoes.

Moriarty does him a kindness and doesn't wait long before he pulls out; Sebastian groans pleasantly when Jim vanishes where-ever to dispose of the condom, stretching his limbs out along the bed. He drags a pillow under his face and is on the precipice of sleep when Moriarty returns and says something catty about Sebastian's laziness that he doesn't quite hear.

"Oh, fuck off, would you?" He mumbles into his pillow.

"I've got proper nail marks to replace," Moriarty says, "And bruises. And I don't think I've pistol whipped you in a while. But you're right; you can rest."

That alarms Sebastian enough for him to open his eyes and struggle up. Moriarty is sat quite pleasantly beside him, resting on the headboard, naked, with the gun in his hands. The post coital haze makes Sebastian sluggish, and he only realises that Moriarty is intending to hit him with the handgun... once he's already done so.

As Jim waggles his fingers in a 'goodnight', Sebastian thinks, I am going to kick that little arse as soon as I wake up, and passes out.


End file.
